


Rhythm as Old as Rhyme

by veiledndarkness



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Physical Abuse, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veiledndarkness/pseuds/veiledndarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for twd_kinkmeme. There's comfort in routine, and this is one he knows all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhythm as Old as Rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: _Carol begins to physically abuse Daryl. I don't want this to be evil!Carol but messedup!Carol. It doesn't matter whether they are in a relationship or just friendship._

-

It doesn’t hurt, not really. 

And it’s not something he’s unfamiliar with, not at all. 

This he can understand, _this_ he gets. It’s all that other stuff, the emotions and the feelings and the concern that make him uneasy. It never rings true, not completely, no matter how nice the praise is, no matter how much he secretly craves the kind words tossed his way by people who mean well.

He’s been expecting it to happen for some time now. He’s more surprised that it took this long. 

It doesn’t hurt; she doesn’t have the brute strength to put any real pain into it. Not like his dad had, not even the careless way Merle had when he got liquored up. No, it’s not painful, not even when his cheek pinks up with the faintest outline of fingers on his cheekbone as proof. 

It’s the way she looks at him when she does it, the way her lip curls, the unbanked rage in her eyes, the hectic spots of colour on her cheeks when she swings her hand back, slim fingers almost claw-like as they descend, that’s what hurts.

She cried the first time, her face ghostly pale, tears dripping down and running off her chin. She cried and stammered out a horrified apology and all the while, he stood there, staring at the dirty prison floor as his cheek throbbed, listening to her beg him for forgiveness. 

As if he wouldn’t forgive her.

She doesn’t apologize now, not after the first few times. He prefers it that way.

And it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it. He knows he does. It’s his fault, he can admit that when she tells him so, he makes this happen, he’s sure of that much. His father had been an excellent teacher in that subject and the bruises he’d sported many a time were proof that he was a poor learner at best.

Even Merle had known that. 

So when she tells him that he deserves it, that he’s stupid and near useless, that he’s lucky to even be allowed to stay with the group, that it’s only Rick’s pity that keeps him from being left to fend for himself, he agrees silently, shoulders hunched like they might deflect the bitter stream of hateful words that leave jagged little wounds all over.

She means well, he thinks, she’s only trying to help. Merle had tried his best to make a man out of him, so he’d said time and time again, and now…now he has her to help. She says she wants an honourable man, a good man and even if he’s not sure he wants to be hers, he knows that he wants, _needs_ , to please her, someone, anyone, even if it’s only the one time.

He can live without her; he can live without all of them, but God, sometimes he wants so badly to belong somewhere. 

So he tries and tries, pushes harder to do more, to be what they need, what she wants even though it’s never enough and when she berates him, he swallows over the lump in his throat and nods, taking it.

He can’t help but flinch when she looms in front of him, raging with hate and a need to punish someone. He’s been there, been the victim too many times before, unable to fight back, been struck with an impotent desire to hurt someone else, so he forgives her in his mind and ignores the concerned looks from the group, brushes away their worries and avoids their attempts to talk.

They wouldn’t understand anyway.

She cares. He knows she does ‘cause she tells him so every now and again and the promise to do better, to try harder, passes his lips. She’ll smile when he does, touch her small hand to his shoulder, her fingers gentle. She knows he’ll try, she says that too, her tone forgiving and warm. 

It doesn’t hurt, not like they think it does. There’s comfort in routine, in knowing that someone cares enough to help keep him in line, even when it hurts, and in the end, she wouldn’t bother if she didn’t care. He knows that. It’s not like it hurts. Not really.

-


End file.
